Cuckoo (Kindred Book 3) (27 page)

Except the side panel of the device was open, and wires were pulled out. Caine had admitted to frying the circuits. Zara located the small black box that she knew was connected to the kill switch, but the red wire that gave it power was pulled out and she had no tools to open the panel. She was no electronics whizz either, so even if she did get it open, she was as likely to blast herself to high heaven as she was to achieve her goal.

The remote kill switch was dead. But she couldn’t just give up and go home, she could be the last line of defense, the last person to lay eyes on this machine before it was put to purpose. Exploring further, she found frayed wires and dead circuits. Cuckoo didn’t seem to have located the explosives. From what Tuck had said, they were built into the frame with a fuse connected to… hope. The gas canisters in the machine had been loaded with flammable gas, and there was a traditional fuse deliberately built in as their backup. But she’d still need a spark.

Considering how to achieve ignition, Zara slid up the panel that hid the gas bottles, and when it was off, inspiration struck her. Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she squashed it between the two canisters then gripped the closest. Clenching her teeth, she turned the manual valve to release the gas into the air. There was no needle for her to watch to check it was working; the machine was built to be covert.

A gunshot blasted just a second before she heard the ting of metal on metal. Spinning around, she leapt out of the van to see Cuckoo slinking toward her with a gun in her hand. The first shot hadn’t hit her, so it was a warning, or the woman was a bad aim.

Turning to grab each door, Zara slammed the van doors knowing that she was concentrating the gas. She didn’t have a lot of time and needed to know that when she ordered the spark, it would be enough to combust the gas, which should ignite the explosives.

Backing away from the van, Zara’s awareness wasn’t on Cuckoo or getting shot, it was on getting away from the unstable device. With every backwards step, every second, that van was becoming a more powerful, more destructive, more lethal bomb.

Eyeing the van meant Zara wasn’t giving Cuckoo the attention she craved, but she got it when the next shot sounded, and the force of an impact threw Zara backwards onto the floor. It was pressure not pain that made her fall, but Cuckoo’s perverse laugh helped Zara understand what had happened.

The van was rigged, she had to get out of here, but pain burst through her body, and her hand moved to the source. When she looked down at her reddened hand and the expanding stain on her top, she began to panic. Blood. She was bleeding. She was shot.             

Panting through the pain that grew with every drop of blood that dripped from the gunshot beneath her ribs, Zara rolled onto her front and crawled the last of the distance to the wall. Using a pipe that ran upwards, she pulled herself onto her feet.

“You just won’t quit,” Cuckoo said, leveling her gun at Zara again.

Zara wasn’t ready to concede. “It’s like you said about American women,” Zara said and coughed as her chest tightened. “We’re peppy.”

“And not too smart.” Cuckoo said, taking one stride toward her, which brought her nearer to the van. “Do you want to die? It’s such a shame he’s not here to see it.”

“Kill me,” Zara said, taking her weight away from the wall and squaring the pendant to make sure the camera was lined up. If she was going to die here, she wanted to make sure the Kindred knew who to make pay for her murder.

“Any final words?” Cuckoo said, pulling back the hammer of her gun.

It didn’t take too much thought for her to come up with a reply. “Two,” Zara said and raised her voice to call out as loud as she could in this echoing space. “Treason terminate!”

Cuckoo frowned at her seeming insanity, and Zara took the chance to dash the remaining few feet to the door, where she slipped around to the other side of the concrete wall. Less than a second later, the deafening blast of an explosion burst in her ears. She fell forward, despite being protected from the blast, the wound in her torso was sapping her energy.

Rolling to her back, she took her hand from the bloody mass of her shirt. The manor was so close, but there was no way she was going to make it there on foot, and she had no vehicle nearby. If Cuckoo was still alive, she was injured, so neither of them would be in a fit state to initiate another battle.

Still, Zara tried to stand and got up into a kind of staggering crouch to hurry as fast as she could to hide behind a stack of crates at the corner of the building. They might not be up for another battle, but Cuckoo had been armed, and she wouldn’t be pleased now that her product had been destroyed.

The building was burning in a brilliant fire, and as she collapsed, Zara saw smoke darken the sky. It was fitting, she thought as she closed her eyes. Game Time cursed them all and in succeeding to destroy the device that had stolen so many lives, it had claimed one last victim.

Her eyes were heavy and her body ached. There was no getting out of this one. She would die here alone, and all she could think about was Brodie. Would he go into mourning again? She couldn’t allow it. But she’d made no plans for her own demise, hadn’t added her final instructions to the script with the others.

Closing her eyes, the smell of burning debris and heavy smoke polluted the air. But she’d completed her mission, she wasn’t a failure, and she’d made a difference in the world.

She could have been lying on the dirty ground for a minute or a month. Her concept of time was lost with her consciousness. Sure that the sensation of his fingertips on her cheekbone was an illusion, she turned toward the touch, appreciating the dream while it lasted.

“Come on, baby, let me see those beautiful browns, open up.”

Swallowing the bitter taste from her mouth, Zara did her best to part her eyelids, and that was when she realized she wasn’t lying on the cold ground anymore. Her body was up, not all the way because her feet were still touching asphalt, but her upper body was on something warm, something solid, something familiar.

“Brodie,” she said, immediately recognizing her mistake. “Uh… Raven. I—”

“Open your eyes for me, baby,” he said, and she didn’t like the concern in his voice. He must have reached the same conclusion she had about her prognosis. “Atta girl.”

Sorrow welled up when she blinked and read the fear in his gaze. “I’m sorry, beau,” she whispered because suddenly she was, sorry for all the things they hadn’t done. Sorry that she’d come here alone. Sorry that she hadn’t agreed to his suggestion that they say to hell with everything and leave town.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, and for some reason, his anger was easier for her to absorb than confronting their pain.

Hot tears leaked from her eyes and ran quickly to her ears with others following in their tracks. “I love you. Please don’t close yourself off again,” she said. If she was on a clock, she didn’t want to waste time on an argument. Being practical, taking action, was something she did well, and she’d rather focus on that than saying goodbye. “I didn’t make plans. Put me beside Art. You won’t be able to explain this to the cops and—”

“Hush,” he said, stroking her hair away from her face with a flat palm. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His other arm was around her, but it was only when he pushed harder that she felt the crushing weight of pressure he was applying to her wound to try and stem the bleeding. “I feel numb.”

“You’re in shock,” he said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I love you.”

“You’ve said that already,” he said, and she took her hand to his face when he looked away. He seemed impatient, like he was waiting for something, and it wasn’t for her death. Her vision was too blurred to focus on specifics, she felt his mood in her heart, and the grief made her whimper.

He’d thought Art was going to be ok, and his uncle was dead a minute later. Brodie wasn’t great at accepting being out of control. But she didn’t have the wherewithal to decipher what was going on in his mind. Her body was getting heavier, and it was harder to keep her eyes open.

She heard a car before she loosened. Brodie stood, taking her dead weight with him in his arms. There was movement and sound, but she lost track of it all, and when she next heard his voice they were in a vehicle, in the back seat with her head in his lap and his heavy hand pushing on her injury.

“Wake up, Swallow! I didn’t tell you to sleep. Keep those big browns on me.”

But every time she opened her eyes, they closed again. “Where are…” she whispered. “Where are we going?”

“Base,” Brodie said, resting a hand on her forehead. “Thad’s there waiting to patch you up.”

“No,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Can’t… can’t open the gate. Art will—”

“Hush.”

“Art will be mad. You can’t open the gates… Art will…”

“We make exceptions when our hottest member is bleeding out.”

Her mouth was dry, but she couldn’t feel her body, just intense heat at the top of her head that seemed to be mangling her thoughts. “Tuck... Tuck’s hot.”

“She’s delirious.”

“She better be.” She wasn’t sure who was talking or what they were talking about. Invasive white noise faded in and out, making her ears buzz.

“Brodie,” she muttered, hoping her love was nearby. “Brodie.”

“Stay with me, pretty baby. Keep those eyes open, keep talking.”

Her eyes were glued shut. Tears still managed to escape though. Brodie had been right. She hadn’t realized it because with him she’d felt invincible, and she’d let him down. “One day,” she murmured. Her body rocked with the motion of the car, and she was glad to be here, in his arms, with the chance to say what she needed to. “I let you down, baby.”

“Yeah, you did,” he said, his voice was harsh, stern, like her chief giving her orders. “You’re not gonna do it again! Open your fucking eyes, Swallow.”

“Fuck, man, she’s blue,” Tuck said.

“Just shut the fuck up and drive,” Brodie demanded. Their voices were fading, and she wanted to sleep, just for a little while before the end, before she said goodbye. Something bit into her body, and she was shaken so hard, her head snapped back. “Open your fucking eyes, Zar, stay with me!”

“Got to go,” she whispered, words were getting more difficult as moisture left her mouth. “Too tired. One day… you were right, beau… one day.”

“No! You fucking listen to me, you’re not going anywhere. You stay with me, Zara! I can’t do this alone! Open your fucking eyes.”

But she couldn’t, couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t feel her body, couldn’t breathe. “Have to…” she whispered, parting her lips to pull in one last heavy breath. “Close the door.”

Her thoughts faded to black. The last thing she remembered was craving Brodie’s kiss one last time. 

“I guess I was wrong.”

Opening her eyes, Zara blinked to see Art standing over her in a brilliant white suit. “You… what?”

Sitting up, she looked left and right. This was the manor kitchen, except it wasn’t, everything was the same, but not quite right. The windows were whited out, and the place was immaculately clean and everything was brand new.  Everything except the couch she was lying on, it was the same one she’d sat on while talking to Art on her first trip to the manor, old, worn, and comfortable.

Art sat down next to her extended legs. “I told you to look after him,” Art said.

“You’re… how are you here?” she asked, launching herself forward to wrap both arms around his neck.

“Oh,” he chuckled and returned her hug for a few seconds. Patting her back, he took her shoulders to ease her away. “You are the one who shouldn’t be here.”

That didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Shaking her head, she pulled up her knees to bring both of her legs around Art. Twisting, she leapt to her feet to rush for the door. “Where’s Brodie? He’ll want to—”

Yanking open the door, she was met with brilliant white light and nothing beyond. Slamming the door, she squeezed the handle as tight as her closed eyelids.

Game Time. Cuckoo. One day. The end.

“I told you to look after him.”

Spinning around, she backed up to the door. “I’m dead. This is…” She’d never believed in an afterlife; she’d never given it much thought. But it was the only conclusion that made sense. Why they were in this familiar place that wasn’t the manor. Why she was looking at a dead man.

Glancing down, she saw a loose silk white dress hanging on spaghetti straps to the floor. Curling her toes, she knew her feet were bare, but when she touched her hair, it was fashioned into some fancy up-do.

“I didn’t say goodbye to him,” she said. “He needs us, he’ll never make it through this. He has no one left.”

“Should’ve thought of that,” Art said, rising to his feet and sliding his hands into his pockets. “You let us all down. You were supposed to be his normal.”

“You think I wanted this?” she demanded, shoving away from the door. Moisture stung the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t want to leave him. I love him.”

He grew stony, and an icy breeze swept around her calves. “Not enough,” Art said. “I sacrificed my life for you to have each other, and this is how you repay that?”

“You’re mad at me?” she asked, edging over to him. “I did everything I could, everything I could for him.”

“I told you to be normal. I told you to give up all the macho bullshit.”

“We had to find out, had to know what Kahlil knew about Future’s Hope—”

“You think that matters?” Art asked. No longer cool or accepting, this man was angry and his scowl hurt her heart… if she still had one. “You think one incident twenty years ago was enough to lose your life for? He’s all alone, Zara. You left him alone!”

“No!” she said, slamming her hands onto the back of the couch. “I supported him! The Kindred is his life! He needed me!”

“He still does!” Art said, rounding the couch. “You think he’ll survive alone? He lost his parents! He lost me! You’re all he has left!”

She knew that, and the skidding tears wouldn’t slow. Falling against Art, he took her into his arms and soothed her by stroking her hair. “It’s ok,” he said, soft again, more like the Art she needed. “I told you he needed you. I told you to be with him. That you weren’t like her.”

“Cuckoo,” she said, pushing away. “Is she here?”

If the Atlas warehouse had claimed Mischa’s life, Zara could face her murderer. “I haven’t checked the newest residents,” he smiled, touching her cheek bone, stroking her as Brodie would.

Getting the chance to talk to Art again made this transition easier. “Are you happy?” she asked. “Is this a good place? You get to be with your sister, your brother-in-law. You know the truth. You know every truth.”

His smile grew warm. “I do.” He nodded and turned her to lift her onto the back of the couch where she’d once sat. “I know he will make it if you are with him. I know he needs you. I know I left him in your care.”

Trembling, she sucked her lips around her teeth to chew on the lower one for a second. “What if I’m not enough? What if I can’t get him through?”

His confidence didn’t waver. “You can get him through anything,” Art said. “But you can’t do it from here. You need to go back to him. You need to make him see that his priority one is you.”

Heavy sorrow made her crave her love. “He’s lost everything. I thought I would lose him, too, when he grieved you. I worried that Grant’s death would push him over the edge, that I might lose him for good.”

Art cupped her chin and tipped her head up to look her in the eye. “You’re doing just fine. That door needs to stay open. Without you, he’s lost.”

Her head began to spin, and she closed her eyes to try to regain her focus. Her ears were pounding. “Tell Grant I’m sorry.”

Art frowned. “Grant?”

Zara opened her mouth to ask questions, but a heavy black cloak fell over her consciousness again, and her mind was erased.